


Some Desperate Glory

by PR Zed (przed)



Series: Some Desperate Glory [1]
Category: Take That
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Barlow is ordered to take his men over the top.  A World War I AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Desperate Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to halotolerant for pimping me into the fandom and betaing this story. (Her wonderful [Still Waters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/130364) was a major inspiration for this piece.)

It was the sort of order he despised: launch an attack meant purely as a diversion, a means of keeping the enemy busy so that another platoon could attack the true target. He tried to tell himself that the generals knew what they were doing, that theirs would be a necessary sacrifice, but it had been years now since he'd believed that. He'd stopped believing in "Ours is not to reason why" after the first time he'd led his men over the top.

He looked down, and found the paper on which the order was written crumpled in his hand. The walls of the dug out suddenly seemed very oppressive indeed.

"Everything all right, Captain Barlow?" Private Owen looked at him, his big eyes full of concern. Owen was a favourite of the entire platoon. Nearly two years in the trenches, and he was still as friendly and open as the day he'd arrived. His records said he was twenty, but Barlow suspected Owen was much younger than that. Not that he'd ever voiced his suspicions. There were lads even younger than Owen here in the muck--like that cheeky Private Williams Owen was such good friends with--but none seemed quite so innocent. Barlow himself was barely twenty-two, though times like these he felt infinitely older.

"Fine, Private." Barlow flashed Owen a tight smile, and was greeted in turn by one of the lad's brilliant grins. It was part of the reason everyone liked the boy: his smiles could make you feel as if the sun had come out expressly for the purpose of shining directly on you. "Off you go." Barlow waved the crumpled paper at the boy. "You'll hear what's in this soon enough."

Another grin and the boy was gone. No doubt he'd tell the rest of the men that there was bad news coming. Though being who he was, he'd find a way to soften the blow.

The captain sat down at the small desk he'd managed to get into the dug out, smoothed out the hated orders, and pulled out his charts of the trenches and the surrounding area. Perhaps there was a way to follow his orders and not sacrifice any of his men doing it.

* * *

Private Mark Owen tramped down the length of the trench, giving every man he met a friendly wave or a cheerful smile. When he finally reached the far end of the platoon's section of the trench and the bit he and his mates had hollowed out for their home, he sat down gratefully on one of the stools Rob had stolen from an abandoned farmhouse before the German artillery had hammered the place into matchsticks last year.

The area wasn't a proper dug out. Not like the one Captain Barlow and the other officers shared, but it was as comfortable as things got for the likes of them. It offered some protection from the rain, a place to brew their tea and eat their rations. A place to play cards and share letters from home. A place to kip. And since they'd had weeks without rain, it was finally blessedly free of the mud and dirty water that had made things so miserable for them for most of the winter. He could have been far worse off somewhere else.

He could be far better off, too. He worried at his lip while he thought of the look on Captain Barlow's face when he'd read the orders Mark had delivered from the colonel. There'd been nothing good on that piece of paper, that much was certain.

"Any news from the generals, Markie?" Rob handed him a mug of tea and sat down beside him.

"It was just the colonel, Rob. And I told you not to call me that."

"Suits you, doesn't it. Markie." The bloody oik gave him a grin and stuck an elbow into his ribs.

"Watch it," Mark said as hot tea spilled over his hand, and shot Rob a cross look. He wasn't sure why he bothered; he never stayed irritated with Rob for long. Rob might be an exasperating kid, but he was Mark's best mate. Better than his best mate. Spending time with Rob made him feel like he did on a brilliant spring day, one of those days when the sunlight hit your face with a warm caress and the air smelled of green, growing things. A day as far as you could get from the mud and noise and blood and stench of the front.

"Sorry, mate." Rob gave Mark his best contrite look, which was very good indeed, as well it should have been. He'd had enough practice at it. Mark gave him a stern look for all of three seconds before his resolve crumbled.

"'S'all right." He smiled, wiped his hand on his trousers and took a sip of tea. "That's good. Thanks."

"So what did the colonel have to say?"

"Don't know, but the captain didn't like it."

"There's not much the captain _does_ like, is there?" Rob made a face.

"He doesn't like you much, that's certain."

"That's not my fault, is it?"

"I don't know. You will take the piss."

"It's just my natural exuberance."

"Who's natural exuberance?" Corporal Orange ducked into the hollow, grabbed the mug of tea from Mark, and slurped down a swallow. Private Donald was right behind him, as he always was, and grabbed the mug in turn.

"His," Mark said, nodding at Rob. "Told him it's his own fault the captain doesn't like him."

"You will take the piss," said Donald.

"That's what I told him."

Rob stuck out his tongue in reply, and Mark wondered yet again how Rob had managed to convince any recruiting officer he was old enough to sign up. He'd only just managed it himself, and he'd been sixteen at the time, a year older than Rob, and more mature by a long chalk.

"Markie's delivered a message to the captain," Rob said, neatly diverting all attention from himself. Mark gave him a kick, but it was too late. Donald had already turned that intense blue gaze of his towards Mark, just like Rob had known he would.

"Yeah? What did it say?"

"He didn't tell me, but he wasn't happy about it." Mark chewed at his lip again and clenched one hand until his nails dug into his palm. "They probably want us over the top again." He wasn't sure how long he could do it, go over the top every time they were ordered, every time the captain and lieutenant blew those bloody whistles. Some days he wished he'd never made it this far. Some days he wished a German bullet had found him his first day here, that he'd been spared all the terror of the past two years.

"There's nowt to worry about," Donald said, and grabbed him with one arm, part wrestling hold, part hug. "Stick by Jay and me. We'll make sure you always come back."

"Yeah," Orange said. "We're well hard, us. Not like this 'un." He gave Rob a quick poke in the arm.

"I'm well hard," Rob insisted, though the way his voice rose like the kid he was completely undermined any claim of toughness.

"'Course you are, sunshine," Donald said with a mocking grin. Rob grabbed at Donald, and Orange grabbed at Rob, and it all dissolved into a friendly free for all of the sort that made Mark forget his fears, if only for a few minutes.

But when it was over, when they were all lying, gasping on the floor of the trench and one of the other corporals had come over to tell them to stop behaving like idiots, then he thought one more time about the look on Captain Barlow's face and a cold fear grabbed at the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Jason barely gave the rat crawling over his boot a second look. Normally he'd have killed the beastie, but there was going to be enough killing today without him murdering a rodent. Instead he kept on checking his rifle. He'd had trouble with it the last time they'd ventured into no man's land, and he wanted to make sure it worked this time. After all it wasn't just his life that depended on it. He looked over to where Howard was checking his own kit, making sure his extra rounds were in the right place on his webbing, checking his puttees weren't coming loose. Howard had the intense look of concentration he always got when he was doing something important, his lips compressed to a thin line, his brow drawn in a slight frown. It always made Jason smile, that look. Made him think of better times. Times when they'd got leave together. Times when they'd been able to concentrate on each other.

Howard picked that moment to look up at him.

"There's nowt to grin about," Howard said, a cross look on his face. "It's not going to be a picnic, this."

"I know," said Jason, immediately sobering. Because Howard was right. This attack was going to be a right bastard, for all Captain Barlow had tried to prepare them for it. But then, because it didn't do to dwell on what they couldn't change, he gave Howard's foot a kick. "Glad you're with me."

"I won't be for long if you keep acting like a daft ha'p'orth."

"Go on," Jason said. "You'd be lost without me."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" His words were cross, but Howard's expression lightened enough that Jason could see the truth: he'd be as lost without Jason as Jason would be without him.

The lieutenant came down the trench, calling a five minute warning and pulling Jason back to the reason they were here. He glanced past Howard, and saw Mark and Rob crouched down, their heads together as they waited for the final order to leave the trench. Mark looked worse than he usually did at times like these. His face had lost all colour and Jason could see a sheen of nervous sweat glistening on his forehead. Rob was rubbing his shoulder and whispering to him.

Jason caught Howard's eye and nodded at the two boys.

"We should keep an eye on those two today," he said softly.

"Don't we always?" Howard returned with a firm jut of his jaw.

Then the lieutenant was calling the final warning and there was no more time left. Howard hiked Rob up by one arm, and Jason did the same with Mark. He could feel fine tremors running through Mark's body that didn't bode well. He clapped his arm around Mark's shoulder and gave him a squeeze. "Stick by me and Howard. We'll keep you safe and all."

Mark nodded and gave him one of those ridiculously brilliant smiles of his, though this one held an undercurrent of fear, and then it was time. The whistle was sounding and the whole platoon was crawling out of the trench like a colony of ants intent on its own destruction.

There was a moment of confusion as Jason reached the top, as there always was. Jason was assaulted by the chatter of gunfire and the sound of artillery down the line and the screams of men already hit. But then Howard reached his side and it all made sense. He could see the path through the muck and the bullets and the bodies, just like always. He set his shoulders, raised his rifle, and he and Howard set to work.

Jason had been a house painter back before the war, but he'd always been an avid reader, especially of history. He'd been fascinated by the Napoleonic wars and had read accounts of the English riflemen, expert skirmishers the lot of them. He'd told Howard about them, and they'd adapted the old skirmish technique to this mad war, as best they could. They worked as a pair, as two halves of one whole. One covering while the other advanced. Two years on, they were very good at it. Very good indeed.

Jason kneeled and took aim at the machine gun placement that was cutting down their right flank. The gunner ducked into his trench and Howard advanced and then took up his own position. Jason spared a look for Mark before he moved himself. The boy was holding his own, standing firm in spite of the bullets, with Rob right beside him. Jason gave a satisfied little nod, and then continued up to and beyond where Howard was.

They slogged across a nightmare landscape marred by shell craters, barbed wire, and the bodies of men who couldn't be retrieved. Jason lost all sense of time. He could have been out here, with Howard at his side, for a minute or an hour. As always happened, their forward progress slowed and stopped, and then the Germans were pressing them back. He and Howard held their position longer than most of the platoon, but soon enough even they were beginning their retreat, orderly at first, then increasingly harried, until finally they were running. He loped across no man's land beside Howard, concentrating on the pleasure of matching strides with Howard, and ignoring the sound of the bullets whining past his head.

He caught up to Rob and Mark when they were nearly fifty yards from their line.

"Come on, lads," he said, and gave Mark a wink. "Nearly home, aren't we."

Mark gave him a weak smile and sped up. Jason increased his own pace, with Howard right beside him. They were going to make it. They landed back in the trench, tumbling over each other, caught laughing in a heap of tangled limbs, happy that they'd survived another day, that this time the bloody Germans hadn't got one of them.

But then they stopped laughing and Jay saw Rob frown and sit up, pushing up off Howard's shoulder.

"Where's Mark?" Rob asked.

And the bottom dropped out of Jay's world.

* * *

Howard realized what was going to happen before anyone else: Rob was going back for Mark. And if he tried, he'd be dead as soon as his head cleared the trench.

He struggled to his feet and tackled Rob as Rob reached the fire step, then held him down as Rob punched and kicked and screamed and cried.

"I've got to get him, Doug." Rob's voice rose and cracked. "Let me go!" Howard stayed silent and held on harder as Rob's struggles grew fiercer. And then he wasn't struggling at all. He'd gone limp in Howard's grip and was weeping into his shoulder. "Please, Doug. Let me go."

Howard still didn't say anything, because what was there to say? He just tightened his grip on Rob, rubbed his back and tried not to give in to his own sense of grief. Mark, of all people. Why did it have to be Mark?

A crowd had gathered around them, and he could sense Jay holding them back, letting Rob keep just a little of his dignity. He could hear the questions, could hear Jay explaining what had happened, could hear the whispers: "It's Owen." "Bloody Germans got Mark." "Not Mark. Poor lad." The whispers grew louder and louder, until they were like the rushing sea and it was all Howard could do not to wail, not to add more salt to the ocean. Then Rob gave one final sob and fought his way out of Howard's grip, standing to confront the men who surrounded them.

"He's not dead!" he shouted, his voice cracking even as his face collapsed in his grief. "Don't bloody say he is."

Just then, a voice rose above all the others. "The boy's right." Every head turned in the direction of the speaker, a corporal from another section who was peering through a periscope into the hell of no man's land. "He's not dead. Not yet."

Rob tore through the crowd and grabbed the periscope, though what he saw brought him no comfort. After a few seconds he let it slide from his grasp and collapsed, sobbing, on the fire step.

Howard used his height and size to push through the crowd, with Jay close behind him. He took up the periscope, drew in a deep breath, and began to look for the lad. When he saw Mark, sprawled on his front in the mud, just barely sheltered from German snipers by the lip of a shallow shell crater, he first thought the corporal was wrong. Mark must be dead. But then he saw Mark's hand move, making a feeble-looking fist, and his head rise, turning towards the trench.

"Keep your head down, lad," Howard said under his breath, and as if Mark had heard him, his head sunk back into the mud.

Jay gently pried the periscope out of his hand and took a look himself. "He's got a leg wound," Jay said. "A bad one." He handed the periscope back to the other corporal, brushed off his sleeves, straightened his uniform, and set off down the trench.

"Where you going?" Howard asked as he fell in behind Jay. He heard Rob scrambling to catch up.

"I'm going to talk to the captain. Ask for permission to get Mark back."

Rob caught at Jay's arm and pulled him up short.

"Let me ask, Jay."

"The captain doesn't like you, Rob," Jay said, pulling his arm free of Rob's hand. "You've said so yourself."

"Let me ask." Rob was always the one most likely to make a joke, most likely to not take things seriously, no matter how much horror surrounded them. But Howard had never seen him so determined in his life. It was as if that other Rob, the joker, was a mask that had been stripped off, leaving this new grave and resolute Rob in his place. But Jay was equally resolute, and he stared down Rob as Howard had seen him stare down a German sniper they'd come upon last week. The sniper had taken the worst of that encounter. Howard held his breath and wondered who was going to give way this time: unstoppable force or immovable object.

Then Jay blinked, and nodded, and the moment passed.

"All right, Rob. You talk to the captain. But you mind your manners." He gave the boy a light cuff about the head. "You won't be helping Mark if you piss off our commanding officer."

Rob stood at attention and snapped off the smartest salute Howard had ever seen him manage, then set off at a quick trot towards the officer's dug out.

"Bloody cheek," Jay said as he followed.

"I don't think that was cheek," said Howard as he took up the rear of their three man parade. "I think that was sincere."

"That'd be a first."

"For everything there is a season," said Howard, memory floating up a fragment of scriptures his da had always liked.

"Well," said Jay. "Let's just hope this isn't the season God wants one more death from our platoon."

* * *

Rob had never done anything harder in his life than walking through the trench, away from Mark, trying to stay calm, to act like he thought a man ought to. The rumours of what had happened to Mark must have flown before him, because everyone he passed seemed to hold the knowledge of it in their eyes. Some looked at him with sympathy, some with pain; some couldn't look at him at all. Rob swallowed it all, the sympathy and the pain, and held it where it couldn't hurt him. Not now. Not yet.

Captain Barlow was waiting for them outside of his dug out, his expression a combination of stern and sympathetic. He spoke before Rob couldn't even get a word out.

"The answer is no, Private Williams."

"I haven't asked anything yet. Sir." Rob tried to keep Jason's advice in mind. Mind his manners. Don't piss off the captain.

"You were going to ask for permission to rescue Private Owen. But if I give it, I'll have two men dead instead of one."

"He's not dead, sir." Rob could hear the desperation in his own voice, but he could do nothing to control it. Because he was desperate. He would do anything, risk anything, to save Mark. He probably didn't always treat him as well as he should, but Mark meant more to him than anyone. Mark held half of his soul, the half that was good and decent. The half that would escape this war untouched by its horror.

"Not yet. But how long do you think he'll last out there? A few hours? A day?"

"He'll last until tonight, sir." Jay moved forward, past Rob. "He's strong. And we can use the cover of night to get to him."

"If he lives that long." The captain sounded skeptical, but Rob thought he saw a flash of something in his eyes. Something that may have been hope.

"He will," Rob said quickly, jumping in quickly to fan those embers of hope into a great flame. "Mark isn't one to give up."

"Corporal Orange and I will go with the lad." Howard stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jay. "Make sure both of them come back alive."

"So, I'm to risk three to save one?"

"To save Mark," Rob blurted out, then once again belatedly remembered his vow to be polite. "Sir," he added, hoping the captain didn't think he was taking the piss.

Captain Barlow stared at him. Rob could tell he was weighing the options, deciding if the risk was worth the possible gain. He knew it didn't make sense, risking three men to save one young private, but sense didn't matter to him, no more than dignity nor honour did.

"Please, sir." His voice was barely a whisper, all he could manage without losing control. He wouldn't weep in front of this man. "Let us bring him back."

The captain looked at him, examined him, and then nodded. "Very well. You have my permission to launch a rescue. You will wait until sundown, and you will not take any unnecessary risks." He turned to look at Jay. "Orange, you're in charge of this mission. I expect you to bring back both Private Owen and Private Williams. Alive, I might add. Private Donald, I assume you can look after yourself."

If Barlow hadn't been a captain and his commanding officer, Rob might have hugged him. But he was both, so Rob merely said a quiet thank you and delivered his second salute of the day, which was two more than he'd given all week. Then he stepped back to wait while Jay talked further with the captain. Quiet words passed between the two men, and then Jay turned and began to lead them back to their part of the trench.

"Private Williams," the captain called out to him. Rob stopped and looked back.

"Sir?"

"Bring him back home, lad."

Rob didn't trust his own voice, so he only nodded, then followed the corporal, his every step taking him closer to Mark, closer to his heart.

* * *

The rest of the day was the hardest Howard had gone through at the front. There was nothing for them to do but wait for night fall and watch Mark. The waiting wasn't hard. All you did most days at the front was wait; a bloke got to be an expert at waiting. But watching a friend, a really nice kid at that, bleeding to death on a battlefield not fifty yards away when you couldn't do a blessed thing to help him. That was truly hellish.

They couldn't even tell Mark that help was on the way, that they were coming for him after dark. If they'd said anything loud enough for him to hear, chances are the Germans would have heard it as well. And some of those boys spoke English. Better to say nothing than to have a German patrol waiting for them when they did finally reach Mark.

Rob had taken the first shift of watching Mark--had insisted on it--but he hadn't lasted long. Not that Howard blamed him. Watching Mark try to stop the blood that seemed to keep flowing from the wound in his leg without making himself a target for the German snipers waiting to take advantage of a slip from the enemy would be an excruciating exercise for anyone. Rob had flinched any time they'd heard a sniper's bullet zing through the air, any time there'd been the muffled blast of artillery from somewhere down the line, any time a machine gunner from the German side had got bored and unleashed a volley of fire in the direction of a rat feasting on the corpse of a horse or a man.

After half an hour of it, Rob had passed the periscope to Jay, and then slumped off to their dug out. Howard found him there, lying on his side, his arms crossed tightly across his body. Howard patted the boy on the head, and it was a mark of how miserable he was that he make his usual objection to being treated like a kid.

"It'll be all right," Howard said. "We'll have him soon enough."

"What if we don't? What if he dies before we get to him?"

"He won't."

"There's so much blood..." Rob trailed off and clenched his eyes shut.

There was no answer to that, so Howard gave his shoulder a rough shake, then left Rob to his own thoughts.

He and Jay traded off watching over Mark after that. Which ever of them wasn't peering into no man's land would stand watch over their other wayward lamb in the dug out, bringing Rob tea, food and company, all of which he ignored.

It was Howard's turn at the periscope when the rat found Mark.

The rats at the front were a loathesome breed, fat from gorging on dead things and fearless with it. There was an ongoing competition in the platoon for who could kill the most of the bloody creatures, but no matter how many they killed there were always more to take their place. This rat must have been drawn by Mark's stillness and the blood from his wound. It had approached tentatively, sniffing at the pool of blood surrounding Mark's leg. Apart from the laboured heaving of his chest, Mark had not moved for a long while, but he jerked sharply at the first bite. Howard longed to kill the thing--with a rock or a bullet--but to take any action would be to call German attention to Mark's position. Instead he watched as Mark kicked weakly at the hideous thing.

He choked back on his revulsion at what this thing could do to Mark before they reached him. But he'd reckoned without Mark's strength. The boy somehow managed to reach his rifle and unclip his bayonet. When the rat next came in range, he stabbed it and flung it, still kicking, away from him.

"Good for you, lad," Howard said.

The battlefield rats seemed to take the demise of their kin as a lesson and avoided Mark from that point on.

Sunset had seemed to take forever coming, but it came at last. As the sun slipped below the blasted horizon and the light of day faded into dusk, Rob emerged from the dug out, with Jay hovering behind him. Silently, the three of them began to prepare for the job ahead. Mud was smeared on exposed skin that might catch the enemy's eye. Rifles were abandoned in place of bayonets. You never fired a shot on night patrol; it would only bring down the fire of enemy machine guns on your head. All gear that might slow them down in the long crawl to Mark was abandoned. A private from another section appeared with three burlap sacks. Howard took them with a silent nod, and passed one each to Jay and Rob. The sacks would help obscure their progress across the battlefield, and they could use one to drag Mark back to the trench.

More men began to gather around them, all of them silent, all of them grim faced. As the last light faded and the absolute darkness of cloudy, moonless night descended on the trench, the men parted and Captain Barlow appeared.

"Good luck," the captain said, and offered his hand to each of them in turn. When it came to Howard's turn, the captain's hand was firm and steady, the hand of a true leader.

A man, the private who'd given them the sacks, patted his shoulder. "Bring 'im back safe," he said, and Howard knew without having to be told that the private spoke for all the men in the platoon, knew that he, Jay and Rob carried the hopes of the platoon with them. Knew that, mere boy though he was, Mark had touched them all, been a friend to them all.

They drew the burlap sacks around their shoulders, and Howard took his bayonet in an easy grip. He looked at Jay, at Rob, and then they all nodded and moved to the fire step.

A jump, a scramble, and then the three of them began the slow creep to rescue their friend.

* * *

Rob crawled through the mud, the burlap sack over his shoulders, his bayonet blade gripped tightly in one hand. He ignored the rocks, the shrapnel, the bits of barbed wire that caught at his knees, his arms, and made his way steadily forward. Then there was a dull thud, and a hiss, and a flare flew up from the German lines, illuminating the nightmare landscape of no man's land with a hellish flickering red light. Rob, Howard and Jay all froze in place, and Rob willed the Germans not to notice the three men crawling towards their lines, even as he used the flare's light to judge Mark's position.

For all the danger they posed, at least the flares let them see they were moving in the right direction. As the flare died out, they were cast back into a murky black void. In the darkness, Rob could just about make out Howard and Jay in front of him, but nothing else. He blew out a breath and tried not to think about what might happen if they lost their way, if they shifted direction slightly, enough to miss Mark ahead of them. It was bad enough to think of Mark out here alone in the first place, unbearable to think of him dying by himself in the darkness.

Two more flares went up before they reached Mark, and Rob began resenting those spluttering, hissing lights for slowing down their progress, for keeping him from Mark. He'd never been patient--there was always too much to see, too much to do to put up with slow people or things--but his impatience to get to Mark grew inside his gut like a living thing, pushing and pushing at him until he felt it would split him open.

He never remembered feeling like this before.

For the nearly two years he'd been in the army, the war had been no more than a lark to Rob. Nothing had fazed him. Not the lice, not the rats, not the morning raids, not the lousy food, not the insufficient pay, not even the deaths of enemies and comrades. He'd shrugged it all off, turned everything into a joke.

But through it all he'd had Mark. Mark had been the first friend he'd made after he signed up. They'd met at a Manchester recruitment office, both skiving off school (in Rob's case) or work (in Mark's), both terrified their mums would find out what they were up to. And they'd both thought the war would be a grand adventure.

An adventure. They'd been bloody stupid. Everyone had. But even when things were at their worst, Rob still hadn't minded. Not when Mark was there to laugh at his jokes, to sling an arm around him, to flash him a smile just for being his friend. But if Mark wasn't there? Rob tightened his grip around his bayonet, concentrating on the feeling of the pommel digging into his palm and trying to distract himself from the thought of facing the war without Mark at his side.

"Hey," Jay's voice whispered softly from up ahead. "I've found him."

Rob fought down the impulse to jump up and run to Mark's side. That would be perfect, wouldn't it. Him going out to rescue his friend and getting killed himself. He forced himself to crawl over to Jay, to Mark, as slowly and methodically as he'd made the whole trip.

Mark was a dim shape on the ground. He looked like nothing more than a bundle of muddied old clothes thrown in a heap, but a heap of clothes that moved, that breathed.

"Markie," Rob said, and he put a hand tentatively on Mark's shoulder. Mark stirred slightly under his touch, but remained silent.

"He's well out of it, Rob," Howard said. "Probably for the best."

Jay was ignoring them both and running his hands over Mark's leg, trying to straighten it out without making the wound worst. Rob could just barely see the makeshift tourniquet Mark had made out of his puttees, a tourniquet now completely soaked through with blood.

"We're going to have to roll him onto one of the sacks," Jay said. "Then Howard and I can pull him back to the trench."

"I can pull him," Rob said, wanting to do something, anything, for Mark.

"We're bigger and stronger, Rob," Jay said. "We can get him back faster. And you can do the most good by going ahead, making sure the way is clear."

Rob knew Jay was right, so he didn't argue further, even though he wanted nothing more than to be the one who delivered Mark from this hell hole.

Howard laid out the burlap sack beside Mark, and they got ready to roll him onto it, Howard at his feet, Jay at his middle, and Rob at his head.

"We do this on three," Jay said. "And Rob, if he screams when we move him, you need to quiet him."

Rob nodded grimly, even as he wondered how the hell he was meant to do that. Jay counted to three, and they rolled Mark. He didn't scream, just made a quiet whimper that Rob stilled with a hand to his cheek.

"Not long now, Mark," he whispered into his friend's ear. "We'll have you back in no time, and then they'll make you right as rain." Mark didn't make any reply, but Rob fancied that his head turned slightly towards Rob's voice.

Then began the trip back, and that was even worse than the trip out. It was certainly slower. Howard and Jay would crawl a few inches forward, and then pull Mark behind them, each trifling bit of movement forward earned at great effort.

"He's heavy for a little fella," Jay said, after a while, when it seemed they'd barely moved forward.

"Don't let Mark hear you call him a little fella," Howard said. "He'll 'ave yer."

Rob let out a short bark of laughter, which he cut off before it turned into a sob. He wanted there to be a chance for Mark to take on Jay and big gruff Howard, but it seemed so unlikely just at the moment that it opened a thin crack of hysteria inside of him. And he knew if he let that crack grow it would shatter him. So he clenched his fists, thinned his lips, and kept on crawling.

They settled into a rhythm--crawl, drag, crawl, drag--Howard and Jay with Mark between them--crawl, drag--and Rob to the side and slightly ahead--crawl, drag, rest, watch. Rob strained his senses, concentrating so hard on the black that surrounded them that in the end, he wasn't sure he was hearing or seeing anything real.

Then he heard a rustling up ahead. He stopped and tensed, trying to tell if it was their lads in the trench, or a rat, or a figment of his imagination.Or maybe it was another British patrol, unlucky sods sent out to fix the barbed wire, or do a recce of the German lines.

"What-" Howard started to say, but Rob hissed for quiet. The rustling was off to his left, and getting louder, more defined. Rob turned to the sound, and then four men, crouching low, loomed out of the darkness. Four men wearing exactly the wrong sort of helmet.

" _Sheisse_ ," one of the Germans said in surprise, and then they were all frozen in place. The German had their rifles pointed straight at Rob. Howard and Jay rose up on their haunches, ready to spring, their bayonets ready to bite.

"No!" Rob hissed out. It couldn't end like this. He couldn't lose Mark, lose his friends, lose his own life, like this. " _Nein_." He held up his hands in surrender, and eased back to where Mark laid on the unkind ground. He reached out, gently took up Mark's hand, and strained to remember the German that those soldiers Howard had captured last month had taught him. " _Mein freund_ ," he said, using up nearly half of the German he knew, and all of it that wasn't blasphemous. "He's my friend," he repeated in English, hoping his meaning would carry to these men, even if the language didn't, hoping the years of fighting hadn't totally killed all compassion within them. He squeezed Mark's hand, even as he blinked back a stinging in his eyes. "Do you understand? _Freund_?"

The man at the front of the German patrol, their corporal, no doubt, seemed to stiffen, and Rob prepared himself for the worst. But then the German corporal relaxed and lowered his rifle.

" _Gehen_ ," he said softly, and waved Rob towards the English trench. Rob couldn't believe his luck, and he was frozen in place. " _Gehen_ ," the German said again, more forcefully this time. " _Schnell_." And this time Rob didn't need to be told twice. He gently placed Mark's hand back at his side, took up one side of the sack with Howard, and they began to move back to their own trench. They were faster now, the adrenaline flooding their veins giving them new energy, the close call increasing the urgency of their movements.

Soon enough, Rob began to hear things beyond the drag of Mark's body and the harsh wheeze of their breathing. He began to hear voices. English voices.

"They're coming!" he heard as they drew close to the trench, and then there were many hands reaching out, taking their precious burden, lifting Mark tenderly into the trench, and pulling Howard and Jay and Rob in after.

* * *

Captain Barlow had nearly given up on them, nearly decided he'd been a fool, letting three men to go off and get themselves killed in a futile quest to save a single soldier, no more than a boy, when he heard a buzz begin among the men watching from the fire step. As he moved closer he heard one of the men, Peterson, he thought, say "They're coming." His mood passed from despondancy to hope as dozens of hands reached up and carefully drew Private Owen into the trench. The men, rough working class types, most of them, placed Owen tenderly on the stretcher that someone had thought to have ready, while other members of the platoon pulled Private Donald, Private Williams, and Corporal Orange to safety.

Owen was unconscious, and even in the flickering light of the trench his face was pale from loss of blood. Williams was immediately at his friend's side, holding his hand as the medic did the best he could with Owen's leg. Barlow turned his attention to the other two members of the rescue team. Orange and Donald had their heads together and seemed to be having a heated discussion. They looked over at Williams and Owen, and then Orange looked up and caught his captain's eye. Barlow held the corporal's gaze for a mere moment, but in that time he felt as if his subordinate was weighing and judging him against a standard he hadn't been informed of. The moment passed, and then Donald gave Orange a nudge with his elbow and the two of them were moving towards him.

"Congratulations, corporal," Barlow said, and gave his men a salute he hoped conveyed the deep respect and gratitude he felt for them. "I'm glad you've brought them back."

"Sir," Orange said, returning the salute as smartly as an exhausted, mud-covered man could. "Permission to make a request."

"Granted." Right now, he'd have given these men anything that was in his power, and a few things that weren't.

"Not here." Orange's shifted away from his, down the trench towards the officer's dug out.

"Very well," Barlow said, even as he wondered what sort of request needed that sort of privacy. But he led them through the trench to the dug out and motioned them inside. He liberated Lieutenant Smythe's bottle of scotch from the corner it was hidden in--what the man didn't know wouldn't hurt him--and poured the three of them generous helpings. Orange and Donald each took the cup they were offered, shared a private look between them, and then both downed the lot in one swallow. Barlow took a more measured sip from his cup, then set it down and addressed his men.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?"

They were both silent for a moment, then Donald gave the corporal another nudge.

"Well, sir, we were wondering if it would be possible..." Orange looked down at his boots. "That is, if you'd know if there were any way..." He trailed off again and looked over at Donald as if in supplication.

"We'd like to know, sir," Donald said, taking up their cause, "if it were possible to have Rob, er, Private Williams sent home. With Private Owen."

"What?" Of all the things they could have asked, Barlow had not expected this, and he gaped open-mouthed at them both.

"They're kids, sir," Jason filled in quickly. "Both of them. Mark's 18 now, but Rob's only just turned 17. He told us when it was his birthday. Neither of them should be here. And now that Mark's out of it, I don't like to think of Rob's chances. Mark was Rob's good luck charm, the one who kept him safe, somehow. I don't think he'll have a care for himself if Mark's not here."

"Well, if Private Williams really is underage, I should be able to send him home. I'll just need to fill out the paperwork. It might take a week or two, given how the army--"

"That's not good enough," Donald broke in, and that gave Barlow his second shock of the night: one of his men interrupting him.. "Rob needs to stay with Mark. Now. They need to go home together."

"I think you're overestimating the amount of authority I have, Private Donald."

Donald stared at him with such power that Barlow nearly took a step backward in response. Orange moved forward and put a gentling hand on the private's forearm.

"It's important, sir, or we wouldn't ask," said Orange, his voice quiet and insistent. "They need each other. I don't think Mark will recover without Rob. And I don't think Rob will survive without Mark. If they don't stay together, I don't rate their chances."

What they were asking for was mad. He should have dismissed them out of hand. But he must be mad as well, because he was beginning to consider it, to think of how he could manage it. He began to come up with a scheme, a theoretical "what if" scenario that, the more he thought about it, the more he thought it might work. And the more he considered it, the more he realized he had to do it. Saving two young lives might be a drop in the bucket compared to the hundreds of men he'd personally seen torn up by this conflict, and even less compared to the thousands upon thousands of men this war was destroying, but saving those two lives might give him a sense of purpose. It might go a ways to providing a fraction of the redemption he felt in need of for the wretched things he'd been forced to do in the name of following orders.

"Right, then," he said, and swallowed his remaining scotch in a single burning gulp. "Follow me." He led them back to where Private Owen was, his leg dressed and ready to be transported.

"He's ready to go, sir," the ambulance driver told him.

"Good," Barlow said. "We're coming with you." He didn't give the man time to object, just waved Orange and Donald to pick up the stretcher. Private Williams looked at him miserably, as if he thought he was going to be left behind. He looked so young, just then, that Barlow wondered if he'd lied to his friends even about being as old as 17. "Well," he said to Williams. "Are _you_ coming?" At least he didn't have to tell the boy twice. He scrambled forward and took his place beside the stretcher, once again taking up the hand of the still insensible Owen.

They made a motley parade through the trenches, a wounded man, his commanding officer, an ambulance driver, and three mud-covered enlisted soldiers, but Barlow didn't let himself think of that. He kept his chin up, nodding at his men as he passed them, until they reached the ambulance. As Orange and Donald loaded Owen's stretcher into the vehicle, Lieutenant Smythe came running up from whereever he'd been hiding.

"Sir!" Smythe was breathless. "Where are you going?"

"I have business to take care of at the dressing station," Barlow said, putting on an absolute assurance he didn't quite feel, but knew he could convincingly fake. "You're in charge while I'm gone." He clapped Smythe on the shoulder and then hopped into back of the ambulance.

"But sir!" Smythe looked discombobulated, as he well might. He never had been any use as a second in command. He'd be a bloody disaster as a commanding officer. Fortunately, he'd only have to manage for an hour or two, if this all worked out.

"You'll do fine. Get through morning stand to, then give the men the day off. There aren't any outstanding orders, and they deserve it." Barlow's last view of his subordinate officer was of him standing, slack-jawed and gormless, before the doors were slammed shut and the ambulance was bouncing on its way to the dressing station.

* * *

Jason had never known what to think of the captain. For all that Howard seemed to like Barlow, he'd never been sure if he could trust the man. He always had a reserve that put Jason off. But watching him as they bounced along in the back of the ambulance, Jason could see that Barlow's reserve hid a deep concern for his men. Several times after they'd hit a particularly vicious bump, the captain caught Rob and kept him from falling to the ambulance's floor. And the way he looked at Mark made it clear he cared as much for the boy as the rest of the platoon. Not that _that_ was much of a surprise. Mark had an inherent likability that seemed to win over everyone he met.

The sun managed to rise while they were bumping about on muddy almost roads, so when the ambulance stopped and the door opened onto the dressing station, they saw the place in the wan light of a cloud-covered dawn.

The station seemed almost more chaotic than their trench. It was built entirely out of sandbags and scraps of lumber and wire and masonry hauled in from the nearby battlefield. Dozens of upright stretchers were stacked at one end of the crude building, awaiting the next batch of wounded, and a number of ambulances sat waiting for their next call out.

They seemed to have arrived at a lull between attacks. The dressing station staff--a doctor, two nurses, and several orderlies--were sitting outside on sandbags, having what seemed to be their breakfast and chatting amiably. Jason wondered how people, women even, who were constantly surrounded by carnage could seem so calm when he felt like he'd been stretched to the breaking point.

The staff looked up as they all tumbled out of the ambulance, the doctor raising an eyebrow at the sight of an officer and three enlisted men who were obviously not in need of his care arriving in his realm. The orderlies bustled over as soon as they saw Mark, and had him out of the ambulance and in the station before Jason could make a move to help.

"Could I have a word?" the captain asked the doctor.

"You can once I've seen to your man," the doctor said as he and the two nurses joined the orderlies and Mark inside.

The captain moved toward the station. Jason looked back and found Rob still standing beside the ambulance, looking more like a shell shock victim than his usual impish self. Jason caught Howard's eye, and they each took one of Rob's arms and walked him over to the station. It was a mark of how exhausted the boy was that he didn't object for an instant.

The four of them, officer and men, stood at the entrance to the station and watched as the doctor and his team worked on Mark, watched as they removed the field dressing and revealed the wound. One nurse began cleaning the wound as another supplied her with water and antiseptic.

"This is a bad one," the doctor said, clucking over Mark's leg. "It might be a kindness if we amputate now."

"No!" Rob sprang forward, a look of horror replacing the blank mask his face had become. "You can't."

"Are you a doctor, young man?"

"No," Rob said. "I'm his friend."

"As his friend, I hope you'd want him to live. And he'll have a better chance of that if we amputate. Infection has been killing more men than shrapnel."

"If you don't amputate, could the leg be saved?" Captain Barlow asked, his voice kind and concerned.

"It's possible." The doctor looked again at the leg, and Jason could see him evaluating what he saw. "It will never be perfect, but it could be saved." He looked up again and directed a sharp expression at Rob. "If the leg doesn't become infected, that is."

"He'll live," said the captain. "Do what you can."

"I can't do much here except clean and debride the wound and send him on. They can handle this sort of surgery better in England." The doctor returned his attention to Mark's wound. "If he is lucky enough to survive, he'll be doubly lucky. This wound will see him out of the war for good."

"Do what you can," Captain Barlow repeated, then retreated from the station, drawing Jason, Howard and Rob with him. "Let's leave them to their work, lads."

They spent the next twenty minutes sitting in a huddle outside, smoking cigarettes that the orderlies supplied. One of the orderlies tried to draw them into conversation, but none of them felt like talking and he gave up after a minute or two. Finally, the doctor emerged from the station, the edges of his sleeves stained scarlet with Mark's blood.

"I've done what I can. The rest is up to God and that boy." He gave Captain Barlow a hard look. "He belongs on a school playing field, not here."

"We none of us belong here," Captain Barlow said and stood. "But you've hit on what I want to talk to you about." Jason got up to follow him, even as he motioned to Howard to stay with Rob.

The three men moved off to where they could speak in relative privacy.

"Well, what is it?" The doctor looked tired and wrung out. And now that Jason was closer to him, he could tell the man wasn't much older than he was.

"Private Owen and Private Williams are friends." Barlow nodded in Rob's direction. "They both signed up too young, and Williams is still underage."

"So fill out the paperwork and send him home."

"His friends think they'll both do better if they're kept together. And so do I."

"And you want me to manage it?" the doctor asked incredulously.

"In a word, yes," Captain Barlow said, his absolute confidence in what he was asking for winning over Jason completely in that moment. From this point on to the end of the war, Jason would do whatever his captain asked.

"Impossible," snapped out the doctor. "It may not look like it, but there's a system to all this. The War Ministry has set up a vast bureaucracy to make sure that soldier A gets to point B, with the least amount of fuss possible. If a soldier just shows up somewhere without orders, there are going to be questions."

"Where there's bureaucracy, there's also inefficiency and confusion," Captain Barlow said. "If Williams looks like he belong in a place, if he acts confident and avoids notice, he'll get away with it."

"Christ," the doctor mumbled under his breath as he frowned and looked down at the ground. As Jason watched, the man kicked viciously at a clump of mud, blew out a quick puff of breath, and looked up. "I can't believe I'm going to do this, but...Jenkins!" He turned to one of the orderlies, standing by the dressing station, a sharp-faced man who immediately stubbed out a cigarette and jumped to attention.

"Sir!"

"Do we still have Robinson's kit?"

"Yes, sir. We weren't sure what to do with it."

"Go get it, there's a good fellow." The doctor turned back to the captain as Jenkins ran off. "Our bad luck might just be good luck for you. We lost an orderly last week. Robinson was hit by shrapnel from a stray shell." The doctor paused, and Jason could see his mouth tremble for a moment before he continued. "We've still got his spare uniform. Your lad can have it, and then all he has to do is blend in with the support staff wherever his friend is sent and he should be fine. You're right that no one will question an extra pair of hands to help with the work."

"Do you think Williams can manage that?" Barlow asked Jason.

"If it'll keep him with Mark, he'll manage," Jason replied.

The captain went off with the doctor, and Jason returned to Howard and Rob. Rob looked rough, there was no way around it. His face was pale and Jason could see his hand shake as he brought a cigarette to his lips. He looked up as Jason approached.

"The captain has sorted it out, Rob. We're sending you home with Mark."

The last thing Jason expected was for Rob to burst into tears, but it seemed that Howard had been waiting for it. He wrapped an arm around Rob and let the boy sob into his chest. Jason could see a suspicious sheen in Howard's eyes, but he would never say anything about it. He suspected his own eyes were none too dry.

The next few minutes saw a flurry of activity at the dressing station. Mark was bundled up and prepared for the long trip to the coast. Rob was dressed in the uniform of the dead orderly, and the other orderlies gave him a crash course in what he'd be expected to know. It was a lot, but Rob was a bright lad; Jason knew he'd do all right.

There wasn't really even time for a proper goodbye. Jason patted Mark's arm, and gave Rob a brief hug. Howard gave Rob a friendly punch on the arm, and the captain shook his hand. Jason's last coherent memory was of watching the ambulance that held Mark and Rob set off westward to the coast as he stood between the captain and Howard, wondering how much longer he was going to be able to keep on his feet.

Jason was never entirely sure how they made it back from the dressing station. He supposed they must have caught a ride back to the front with a truck or an ambulance, but he was so tired, so blindingly exhausted, that he was left with only vague impressions of noise and bouncing on rough roads, of Howard's solid presence behind him and the captain somewhere ahead. He found himself back in their trench, swaying on his feet, desparate to lie down. He heard Howard tell some of the other lads to bugger off, then felt Howard's hands on his shoulders, steering him towards their dug out. Howard peeled his webbing off him, and eased him down on his cot. Jason tried to speak, tried to tell Howard that he wasn't tired, that he couldn't sleep even if he was, but he couldn't form the words.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to crowd out the images of Mark, lying in the dressing station, so still and white, of Rob, hovering over his friend. He tried to concentrate on the thought of the two of them headed for home.

He heard Howard lie down behind him, felt Howard's arm go around him, felt Howard pull him tight, and tensed up immediately. They were careful about this. That was the one rule: they were always careful.

"Someone'll see," he finally forced out, his own voice sounding alien to him.

"Don't care," Howard said, and Jason could imagine the look on his face: determined and resolute, his jaw set firmly, his blue eyes sharp as honed steel. He felt Howard snuggle further into his neck. "I want to feel you breathe."

Jason let out a sigh then, and all the tension, all the horror of the past day seemed to bleed out through his skin. He raised one hand and gripped Howard's arm as hard as he could.

"I love you," he whispered, so softly he thought it possible Howard hadn't heard him. But then he felt Howard shift behind him, felt Howard's lips brush his ear.

"Love you, too," Howard said, the words little more than breath. But they were enough. More than enough. More than he deserved in this life.

* * *

The first thing he became aware of was the sense of motion, of being tossed gently to and fro.

Then came the pain. He felt as if his leg had been torn apart, though there seemed to be a hazy curtain drawn between him and the full impact of the pain. He shifted, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position, struggling to remember what had happened, how he'd come to be here. Whereever here was.

He opened his eyes, and found himself at the end of what seemed to be a large bunk. On his left side was a man who seemed to be swathed in bandages from head to toe. On his right was a wall, a metal bulkhead. A ship. He was on a ship. A hospital ship.

He pushed up onto his elbows. In the dim light of the ship's hold he could see other men surrounding him, men with bandages, men with arms missing, with legs shattered. He looked down and could see the dressings on his own leg.

He clenched his eyes shut and willed himself to remember. Flashes came to him: Rob at his side; the attack; Corporal Orange giving him a wink. Then a jolt, and a fall, and realizing he'd been shot. Sprawling in the mud as he watched his friends recede in the distance and jump into the safety of the trench. Trying to staunch the bleeding from his wound. Trying to remain conscious. Trying to fight off the rats. Trying not to think what would happen to his friends if they were daft enough to attempt to rescue him. Trying not to think about the fact that he was going to die on a French battlefield, broken and alone. Then there was grey and darkness and nothing at all.

He could feel moisture in the corner of his eyes. He gave a sniff and drew one arm across his eyes. It seemed his friends had been daft. But what had happened to them? What had happened to Rob? Was he safe? Was he alive?

"Oi, Rob!" a man with a thick Yorkshire accent called from across the aisle. "Your mate's awake."

"Mark!" It wasn't possible. It was bloody well _im_ possible. But there at his side was Rob, holding his hand, hugging him tightly, laughing and crying both. Mark hugged back as tightly as he could manage and felt the tears spill over his own cheeks. Mark had the impression that Rob might have kissed him if they'd been alone, and he suddenly desperately wished that they were alone, instead of here in the hull of a ship, surrounded by dozens, maybe hundreds of wounded men. He clutched at the front of Rob's uniform tunic.

"What are you doing here?" he asked stupidly.

"Looking after you," Rob said as he quickly wiped his own eyes. "And the rest of these pillocks."

There was a general uproar and things thrown in Rob's direction by the men who were able.

"But you're not--" Rob stopped his words with a finger to his lips.

"I'm a general hospital orderly. It says so right here." He pointed proudly to the flash on the shoulder of his uniform, a uniform that looked suspiciously large, now that Mark was looking at it. Then Rob leaned in closer and whispered. "Captain Barlow fixed it. So I could stay with you."

"Oh, Rob..." Mark trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed by the realization of how much he cared for Rob, and how Rob made him feel, as if he were the most important person in Rob's life, instead of just wee Mark Owen. He felt his head spin and laid back down. An overpowering wave of fatigue caught at him and he felt himself begin to fall not into oblivion, but into a deep and restful sleep.

"You have a kip, Mark." He felt Rob stroke his hair and leaned into the touch. "We'll be in England soon enough. Then they'll be shipping us to Manchester. Do a proper operation on your leg so you can heal."

A question occured to him and he fought to break the surface of sleep.

"The corporal? And Private Donald?"

"Jay and Doug are fine. Helped get you back and all."

"And you'll stay with me?"

"Always," Rob said, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"Always," Mark repeated.

And then he slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Continued in [The Heart's Long Peace](http://archiveofourown.org/works/211909).


End file.
